Press Release
by jewelwhisperer
Summary: Harry Potter, on the night after his defeat of Voldemort, finds he cannot handle the lie he has lived. The Daily Prophet reports...Written before HBP.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Press Release

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Today, I hate myself.

I hate myself with a passion unparalleled. I hate my body, my abilities. I hate the things I do, the things I can't do and the things I want to do. I hate the constant strain on the place between my shoulder-blades, the streamlined ache running through my legs, the weight pulling my eyelids down behind round glasses.

I hated myself yesterday, too, but it wasn't the way I hate myself today. Yesterday I had a purpose, a reason to go on, to keep my hate to myself. Today I am different. My future is a blank.

I am a murderer.

It was kill or be killed, and I hated the way I refused to succumb to the higher power. Oh, yes, I knew he was better than me. I've always known it. I've only ever got by on luck, or from flukes, never because I was better. Other people have been saving me my whole life. I hated that even though this was my one chance to let him know that he was better than me, I couldn't tell him. I had to do away with him and be the savior of humanity, exactly the way I didn't want to. I had to live a lie—the lie that I was a hero. And instead of squashing that lie the way I should have, I didn't, and the lie prospers.

I'm not hero material, to be honest. I'm short. I'm scrawny. I wear glasses, I'm not all that smart, and I hate like the rest of the population. People treat me like I'm so much better than them, but in truth, I'm mortal. I have been, I always will be. I sin. I yell and scream and cuss and drink and all those other things that no one thinks I do.

_HARRY POTTER DEAD!!_

_Harry Potter, twenty-two, the hero of October 31st, was found dead yesterday morning in his bathtub. He was found by his house-mate and guardian, __Remus__Lupin__, a well-known rebel against You-Know-Who. He was visibly distraught and refused to answer our questions._

But no one wants that kind of hero, they want the hero who has a halo, all shiny and ready to go for when they step out off the battlefield, spotless, unruffled, and already pulling that halo out for the Daily Prophet photographs. I remember that before the photographer would take my picture last night, he called make-up over and they washed my face of the dust, grime, and blood. I was a clean-cut, righteous young man, and everyone loved it.

But though I was clean on the outside, my mind was tormented and my emotions unraveled. I kept seeing the look on his face when he realized that I could do this, I could actually do this. I will never forget the way he fought to keep his face neutral through his horror. There was a bright light when he left. Sometimes I think I could hear him scream through the light; other times I think I imagined it. Death is not roses and daisies. It's not a walk in the park.

Tonight, it's dark and the moon is wild. Wispy clouds float across the sky, a dusty gray against the indigo. I hate my existence here. Here it is beautiful. I can hear the wind through the trees, making the music of nature. The stars are huge and bright, and the night air surrounds me like a blanket.

I don't deserve this existence. I have seen the dredges of eternity. I know what evil looks like; I know what evil feels like, running through my veins. I know the voice of Death and I know the hands of Hell. I am impure, dirty, tainted. This existence calls for everything I can't be.

_Investigators immediately suspected __Lupin__, who has been a werewolf for over thirty years, but Medical Examiner and Head Healer __Ginevra__Weasley__, of St. __Mungo's__ Hospital, proved that the death was a product of suicide. __Weasley__ was also a close friend of Potter's, and also declined comment._

The moon is bright but my blade is brighter. I have chosen this way, this knife, after careful consideration. There are easier ways, faster ways. I am, after all, a wizard, and I have felt the spell on my tongue. It would be cleaner.

To be cleaner would be adding to the lie I have lived before. I don't want to continue living that lie, even after the breath has gone from me. I want the truth in my final moments, and I want the world to know what I truly was.

The blade will draw blood, and with that blood I will prove my own worthlessness.

The first cut is clean. A fine line of red begins to appear on my pale wrist. I have been planning this moment all day. As more blood comes, it bubbles up, then pops. The release I feel is nothing like the release to come.

I savored that first one, but the following ones are less carefully done. I slash and slice as fast as I can, creating as many wounds as I can, digging the blade through the layer of skin until I can't feel it anymore.

I lean back. When the blood started pooling in my palms I came and sat in the bathtub. The plastic is cool and unforgiving. There is a window across from where I sit and I can see the stars through a canopy of leaves. It is a good view to be left with.

My head is getting heavy. There is darkness in the corners of my eyes.

For the first time I think I may regret my decision. I haven't thought it through. "What if" scenarios run through my head, leaving me wanting each one more than the one before. A wife. Children. The return to a normal life that I never fully made. Now I have the chance.

_Hermione Granger, school-friend and love interest of the deceased hero, was the only friend closely connected to Potter who gave comment._

Tears run down my face, but I can scarcely feel them. I think of Ron, who died in the war three weeks ago, and of Hermione, who is still alive but wasting away. I haven't seen her eat for at least four days. I wonder vaguely if she's eating now that everything's over. I think of the morgues, the last places for the bodies, where Ron lies, cold, among so many others awaiting burial. Magic has been used to increase their capacity.

I lean forward, so quickly I get dizzy, and have to grope, almost blind, for the faucet. Cold water flies down onto my shoes, contrasting the warm blood that has pooled underneath me. I didn't realize there was so much of it.

_"I hold the entire __Wizarding__ community responsible for __Harry's__ death. You have treated him like something he's not ever since he was a baby. The man didn't shit marble, you know. He was just a normal person shoved into an abnormal situation. If Dumbledore were still around, he would never have let Harry into the situation alone [on October 31st. If I had known what the plan was that night, I would've insisted coming along. I suspect that's the reason why I wasn't told._

_"But no sane, normal person can brutally kill another—even with good reason—without feeling remorse. People should've known that this would happen, and I even blame myself for not __realising__ it sooner. You have lost a hero. I have lost a best friend."_

I reach up for the washcloth shoved into the corner. I can barely lift my hand that far. The skin is a brilliant red. I dip the cloth in the bloody water, and I want to press it to my forearm to stop the bleeding, but I can't tell where the cuts are and where they aren't through all the blood. I wipe some away and now I can tell.

_Ms. Granger is the current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, having been named Dumbledore's successor in his will. No one this institution is aware of opposed her position._

I press the bloody cloth to the wounds and hiss. This is new pain, fresh pain, and I have a feeling somewhere inside that it is numbed. Even though, it's wretched. I want to cry out.

The idea strikes me. Now I want to scream, scream as loudly as possible, for help, for my wand, for the mistake I made. I can live through hate for myself, through the lie that I live, if only for those I love. Hermione's face haunts me through the darkness I am seeing. I open my mouth and croak. Nothing comes.

_Only one family member agreed to comment to this institution, Mrs. Vernon __Dursley__Muggle__). As Potter's aunt, she says, "I always expected him to meet a rotten end. Who could live in a world with the power to kill, without effort? I must say, though, I didn't expect suicide... My husband has received several nasty letters from __Harry's__ friends and we would appreciate it if they stopped."_

I tell myself not to give up and try again. I can set things right. This was a mistake. I can set things right, and true, and honest. They expect it of me. I did it once before, I can do it again. This was...a...mistake...

_There will be a memo__rial service on Monday, November __5, and will be __public __The funeral is Sunday, November __4, and is private for close family and friends._


End file.
